


Sense Memory

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-24
Updated: 2009-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not hell, and Alistair is not some random soul to be cowed, or disturbed, by a sharp knife and string of graphic threats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense Memory

Dean knows how to hurt him, knows a hundred, knows a _thousand_ ways to hurt him, knows how to balance him right on the edge, a see-saw of _breathe_ and _scream._ A delicate switch and shift of blunt, sharp, hot, cold, acid and evisceration.

It's somewhere blurred between sense memory, and muscle memory. Some hideous place inside that doesn't really feel like him at all. Fingers touching metal, and glass and bags, moving them and _using_ them, knowing exactly what he's doing, but feeling nothing at all.

But on the tail end of every long second of pain there will be a laugh, a smile, a gentle reminder that no matter what he does, no matter how much he pushes-

This is not hell.

This is not hell, and Alistair is not some random soul to be cowed, or disturbed, by a sharp knife and string of graphic threats.

There's a pause, where pain turns to breath and _arrogance,_ and Alistair spits blood on the ground. Then leans back, lifts his head and sighs. There's a long stretch of hand, that doesn't so much test the chains as seem put out at the inconvenience of wearing them.

Alistair eyes him, somewhere between curious and unimpressed. Like Dean's a pupil he's particularly disappointed in, and Dean reels back on the savage urge to pick up the largest knife on the tray, and keep hacking until Alistair's head comes off.

There's a low, amused noise, as if every thought in his head slips traitorous from inside, painted for Alistair to see.

And Alistair is a breath away from laughter, throat still too raw to make it sound anything but a broken cough of vicious amusement.

Dean thinks he could cut Alistair into pieces and he'd still be laughing.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the attention, Dean, you know I always appreciate your _attention._ " Alistair's tongue trails round his teeth, checks they're all still there, and seems almost disappointed when he finds his smile intact.

"The truth is, that there are no words for some of the things I did to you, and you, much as you would like to think that you can-" Alistair's mouth stretches in a smile, half of his teeth still white. " _Man up,_ for a truly _righteous_ cause, you are simply not ruthless enough to be me."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Dean says fiercely, swallows until he doesn't feel like he's choking.

"Well, you're doing a very poor job of it so far, I know I taught you better than this. I taught you _so much_ better than this." Alistair shakes his head. "I see this as a waste of good skills. Do you need help Dean, do you want me to help you. I helped you before."

Dean presses down with his hands until they go white on the table.

"Pick up the knife," Alistair says smoothly, thread of insistence somewhere underneath the words. A low hypnotic promise that if Dean will just do what he's told, will just listen to _instruction_ that he will do it right this time, that he will have what he wants this time.

He finds the handle of the knife, closes his hand round it.

"Bring it here."

Dean's teeth grind together, and almost against his will he lifts the blade and turns, takes two steps.

"You want me to tell you what to do, don't you. You want to do this right, to do this well. Where to cut, how deep, how hard to press, when to stop, when to be quiet and still and just let them scream. I always enjoyed teaching you exactly how to do that. You were always so enthusiastic."

Dean stops just far enough away that the knife is more than a promise.

"You used to like doing what I told you to," Alistair says smoothly.

Dean slides close enough to lift a hand and fold it round one of the chains, and it's solid under his cold hand, as real as anything in the room. Another sense memory that leaves his breath shuddering out of him like a ragged thing.

He's close enough that he can smell blood, close enough that Alistair's almost breathing into his mouth, more than close enough to feel how warm he is, hung in the centre of a room that's so much colder. Warm enough to creep over Dean's skin, and Dean thinks that, sickeningly, is the only sense memory that doesn't jar.

"You remember how to do this don't you?" Alistair's voice has dropped to a whisper.

Dean can't speak, can't find a single word, because he thinks he's drowning. But he manages a shaky nod.

He does as he's told.

  



End file.
